


Multiples of Three

by writteninhaste



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Kink Meme, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 16:33:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2276808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writteninhaste/pseuds/writteninhaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon learning that the other three are in a relationship, d'Artagnan becomes convinced that he is in the way. He tries to distance himself form his friends, but they're hardly going to let him go so easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Multiples of Three

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neko_Airie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neko_Airie/gifts).



> Written for this prompt on the kink meme: 
> 
> http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=780294#cmt780294

Joining a group already established could be - uncomfortable. d'Artagnan often felt as though he had stepped into a conversation already in progress, or had joined a game where three of the players already knew all the rules, and only occasionally remember to explain them to him. For the most part, it was a minor grievance. Athos, Aramis and Porthos were clearly close friends, it was only natural that at times they would lose themselves to a shared history in which d'Artagnan had no part. There were times when they would disappear together – to talk and drink – and d’Artagnan was clearly not invited. On those nights he would tread the familiar steps back to the Bonacieux house and, if he was fortunate enough to secure Monsieur’s absence, spend an evening talking to Constance as she washed dishes and mended clothes. Occasionally she would press him to help, trusting him only to mend rips in the household linen – his stitching not fine enough to be used upon her stockings or skirts. In the mornings he would find the other three huddled around the table in the garrison, bleary eyed and showing signs of drink and lack of sleep. They would acknowledge him, but there would be smiles they shared between them, that would have no meaning to d’Artagnan, and the festering ache that lingered in d’Artagnan’s breast would throb and grow that little bit larger. He knew his friends did not ignore him out of malice; they had simply not yet broken the habit of being three. But still, in rankled. 

His duty for the week had been the stables, Treville keeping his hands busy whilst a commission sat just out of reach. He did not mind the work – it was familiar at least. In Gascony, horse-work had been a daily routine, for there were not enough men on the farm that they could afford to rotate the chore between them. All worked together to get the job done quickly and then all applied themselves to the work of the fields. In Paris, he worked alone, and it in these moments that d’Artagnan felt how small his circle had become. Three men – more accustomed to each other than to him – when once he could have named every young man in the village as his friend and at least six as his particular companions. If he were honest with himself, he would say that he missed them. But d’Artagnan, for all he was a farmer’s son, had never been a farmer in his heart. He could no more return to Gascony than ask his old friends to join him here in Paris. They had thought d’Artagnan strange, to constantly be playing at swords, to spend his lazy moments imagining himself some great chivalric knight, drenched in honour and bedecked with accolades. Their hands had preferred the plough to the blade and d’Artagnan could not begrudge them their existence. France needed its famers as much as it needed its soldiers. 

Brushing the last of the straw from his clothes, d’Artagnan picked up his swordbelt from where he had set it and wrapped it firmly around his waist. As he did so, he scanned the courtyard in the dying light. Torches had been lit and their flames guttered across the lengthening shadows in the garrison. What men were on duty had already left for patrol, the rest seeking food and beds and pleasurable company. 

“If you’re looking for them,” Serge said, clambering out of the kitchens, “I saw them heading for the Lamb and Sword, ‘bout half an hour ago.” Treville had released them early then, and they had not waited.

D’Artagnan nodded his thanks and debated whether or not he should follow them. Monsieur Bonacieux was home and d’Artagnan had no particular desire to spend time with him or to spend the evening shut up in his rooms with only his thoughts for company. Still, as the others had already left it was likely that this was an evening they wanted to themselves.

Making up his mind, d’Artagnan set out for the Blue Boar – a public house in one of the less reputable parts of the city. Aramis had taken him there once, en route to the Pigalle, before abandoning d’Artagnan for the bed of a pretty lady. The resultant evening had been educational. D’Artagnan had learnt that there were corners of Parish where church teachings seemed to have very little sway; where women wrapped their arms around each other with something more than platonic familiarity; where some of the pretty young things could have been boys as easily as they could have been girls and nobody seemed to mind. He had wondered then if Aramis suspected d’Artagnan’s preferences; if he had watched d’Artagnan watching others and guessed the muscle and bone might be as appealing to the young Gascon and soft curves and painted lips. There was entertainment to be had in Paris after dark, after all, and d’Artagnan did not necessarily need other people with him to enjoy it. A warm meal and some half-decent wine and he could see what the city had on offer. He might even make some new friends.

oOo

The Blue Boar was loud and filled with the cramped heat of unwashed bodies. Forcing his way through the throng, d’Artagnan managed to secure what might have been the last free table, tucked uncomfortably close to the wall and damp with spilled alcohol. A harried barmaid nodded to him as she passed, signally she would return in a moment, and d’Artagnan settled back to wait. There was obviously a party taking place in one corner. A man in a powdered wig, with rouge on his cheeks, was bouncing a laughing woman on his lap, waving his cup of wine in time with some tune only he could hear while his companions cheered and clapped. 

The serving girl returned and d’Artagnan placed his order for wine and dinner. The girl disappeared again, the call of _more wine_ chasing her from the surrounding tables. Just as d’Artagnan was growing bored watching the man in the wig, the crowd to his right shifted. Like Moses parting the red sea, d’Artagnan could suddenly see clear across the room, to a table at the far end: where Aramis was kissing Porthos with enthusiasm. Athos was sat to one side, glass tipped to his lips, but clearly not drinking. He was watching the display with an intensity that sent shudders spilling down d’Artagnan’s spine. When Aramis turned and kissed Athos with the same abandon, d’Artagnan felt his stomach fill with ice. 

Pushing away from the table, d’Artagnan took advantage of surge in the crowd to slip through the doorway and out into the street, unseen. Dragging the cool night air into his lungs, d’Artagnan tried to process what he’d seen. Aramis and Porthos and Athos – all three – apparently very much enjoying one another’s company. It explained a lot and strangely enough, eased some of the bitterness in his chest. Their need for occasional privacy, their slipping away discretely, was understandable – expected even. Whilst d’Artagnan was slightly hurt that he had not been trusted with this knowledge, he could understand the need for secrecy. The trust would see his three friends whipped at best and hanged at worst; drummed out of the regiment surely. 

It was not until he was lying in his bed that night, unable to think for the images chasing themselves round and round in his brain, that d’Artagnan had another thought. What if – on each of those occasioans he had not specifically been invited – he had only been in the way. He had thought nothing of including himself in general announcements of seeking out a drink or food. He had assumed that the intention included him – regardless of if it was Athos, Aramis or Porthos who made the suggestion. But in hindsight, he could remember subtle pauses when he rose to join them – looks exchanged that he had thought nothing of at the time but which now had a very different meaning. How many times had he interrupted these men, taken from them the opportunity to share one another’s company without pretence? How often had his presence been unwelcome? How often had he insisted on sharing the bed when they stopped at an inn, when he could have taken the floor just as easily? 

D’Artagnan pressed the balls of his palms to his eyes, pushing until he could feel the pressure against his lids. And how guilty was he, in turn, of trying to steal their warmth. D’Artagnan was not a fool, he could admit to himself, at least, how specific his preferences had more recently become. There was only so many times a man could wake from dreams of hot bodies and writhing flesh, a single name on dying on his lips, before he had to acknowledge the truth. D’Artagnan wanted Athos – it was a kind of thirst. He would drink the man in when he was with him: the curl of his fingers against a swordhilt, the rise and fall of his throat as he swallowed, his cool, clear voice giving order in the training yard or on the road. D’Artagnan felt his cock twitch with interest.

Cursing himself, d’Artagnan flung away the bedclothes. The air was chill and the temperature dropped dramatically when he flung open the shutters covering the window. Cold wind rushed in to greet him, wrapping icy hands around his chest, fluttering against his waist. D’Artagnan braced his hands against the windowsill and looked out at Paris in the dark. The moon hung like a wheel of cheese, low and fat in the sky, and the streets were heather-grey in the moonlight. A man in a grand hat was walking a woman – his mistress, a prostitute, his wife? – down the street and a drunk was stumbling home to his bed. The man in the hat pressed the woman against a wall and kissed her, hands running from her waist up to her breasts, kneading through the material of her bodice. The woman in turn, raked her hands through the man’s hair, knocking his hat from his head. The drunk eyed it speculatively as it rolled across the street.

D’Artagnan wondered whether Porthos ran his hands like that through Aramis’ hair; whether either of them did the same to Athos? Did Aramis leave nail marks on shoulders and hips? Could Porthos’ large hands hold a man’s wrists above his head and leave him panting to break free? Did Athos command as easily in bed as he did in the field? 

His mind was awash with visions and d’Artagnan felt his arousal building. Slamming the shutters closed he threw himself back onto his bed, one hand wrapping around himself, the other forming a fist with which to gag himself. He stripped himself to brutal completion, imagining Porthos’ thick fingers disappearing into the shadow between Aramis’ legs; Aramis lips spread wide around two cocks at once; Athos’ clear eyes watching everything. 

He came with a bitten off yell, teeth breaking the skin of his knuckles. Blood spilled coppery and wet across his lips and as the glow of his orgasm faded, d’Artagnan felt ashamed. His friends had earned better from him than to be used in such a way. And he owed them more than to make them fodder for his fantasies. 

Sleep, when it came, was unsatisfactory and thin with dreams.

oOo

Treville was already on the balcony, calling Athos to him, when Athos stepped through the archway. He followed his Captain to his office, casting an idle glance out the window to see if Aramis and Porthos had arrived. He had left them in the early hours to the morning to procure a change of clothes – his own shirt having been a victim of last night’s revelries – and he had thought to meet them both at the garrison, for breakfast.

“I need you to take these letters to Orleans. The King’s recent letters to his brother appear to have been misplaced. He wants assurance that these ones are actually delivered. Take Porthos and Aramis; leave as soon as the horses can be saddled.”

“And what about d’Artagnan?”

“He rode out with De Hay and his men at dawn. They are bound for Calais – they will be gone a week.” When Athos hesitated, Treville looked up. “Was there something else?”

“Forgive me.” Athos said. “I had thought the boy was assigned to us on a more permanent basis.”

“d’Artagnan requested the assignment. No doubt he still hopes to prove himself to secure his commission. It is difficult for him to distinguish himself, in the shadow of the finest men in the regiment.” 

It was clear Treville meant it is a compliment, but Athos was something unpleasant settle in his gut. With an inclination of the head, in leiu of a more formal salute, Athos took his leave. Aramis and Porthos had each procured a bowl from Serge and were eating with relish. They had clearly worked up appetites. Athos cocked an eyebrow in Porthos’ direction as he sat and watched with amusement as the man blushed and coughed. 

“If you’d been there, you could have shared.” Aramis told him sweetly, ladling porridge into a bowl for Athos and pushing it in his direction. 

“After last night,” Athos said in a low voice, “I’m not sure I’d have had the energy.”

Porthos grinned. “Nah. It’s amazing what you can do with the right motivation.”

Athos huffed a laugh. “We are to ride for Orleans as soon as you’re finished.” He said, sobering. “We have letters to deliver to Monsieur Le Prince.”

“The whelp not coming?” Porthos asked.

“He has ridden to Calais with De Hay.”

Aramis stared at him, spoon half way to his mouth. Porthos looked like he was waiting for the joke. 

“I suggest you eat quickly, gentlemen.” Athos said, “Treville wants us to depart with all due haste. I will see to the horses.” Leaving his own breakfast untouched he headed for the stables, aware of Aramis and Porthos’ gazes following him.

oOo

De Hay was a good soldier, if a rather surly man. He kept stricter protocol than Athos and d’Artagnan learnt quite quickly that whilst at the barracks De Hay might permit his men the freedom of jokes and laughter the same was not true on the road. When they camped the men were quiet, talking in low voices or tending to their weapons. D’Artagnan felt he had little to say, and what conversation he did offer, was entertained only briefly. He spent much of his time, cleaning his pistol with the meticulous care that Aramis had drilled into him, squinting against the flickering firelight to make sure that was not a single speck of dirt clogging the mechanisms. At night he had disquieted dreams, blood and rain and a dead man falling to the floor of a stables. D’Artagnan had not dreamed of his father’s death in months and now, he dreamt of it every night. 

He was fatigued and heartsick by the time they rode back into Paris. The streets were crowded with the last of the market traffic and it took nearly an hour to work their way from the northern gate to the garrison, where De Hay proved himself a benevolent commander, by dismissing his men to their rest, while he went to make his report to Treville.

D’Artagnan felt a heavy hand land across his shoulder. “There you are.” Porthos said, hand warm even through the leather of d’Artagnan’s cloak and jacket. “Get your horse settled and stow your pack. We’re heading out for a drink.”

D’Artagnan wanted nothing more than to sink into the company of friends, but even as temptation rose within him, he was conscious of the way Aramis was casually draped across Athos; of the way Porthos’ body was turned towards them and away from d’Artagnan even as he made his invitation. D’Artagnan had felt like an intruder at another’s party all week; he had no wish to feel like a stranger again tonight.

“I’m tired.” He said, turning to lead his horse into the stables. “Another time, perhaps?”

“Of course.” Athos said courteously, though he was speaking to d’Artagnan’s back. Porthos found his hand hanging in midair as the boy slid out from beneath it. He turned to look at Aramis in question. 

“He’s tired.” Aramis said. “We all get like that sometimes. I’m sure he’ll be himself again in the morning.”

oOo

d’Artagnan was not himself in the morning. Though, on Treville’s orders, he accompanied his friends on patrol, he was quiet and subdued and even the taunts of a passing Red Guard did not rouse him. Aramis shared a worried look with Porthos over d’Artagnan’s head, but Athos caught their eye and shook his head. D’Artagnan would explain himself in time; pushing him would be no kindness. 

oOo

Come noon, d’Artagnan had again requested assignment elsewhere, and Athos was beginning to place greater store by what Treville had said. Perhaps the lad truly was concerned that he would be overlooked if he stayed with them. He had raw talent, a great deal of it, and if only he would listen to what Athos told him – what Aramis and Porthos tried to teach him – he could easily become the greatest soldier in the regiment. But as the week progressed d’Artagnan ducked all offers of training; he accompanied them only once in the evening and disappeared as soon as he had finished wolfing down his meal. Aramis had been determined to follow him, to force the boy to tell them his troubles if necessary, but Athos had restrained him. They were to ride for the Monastery of Sainte Michelle in the morning. There would be time and privacy enough on the road to draw the answers from him.

oOo

There was no time, no privacy. Bandits, spurred by the thought of royal gold and confident in their numbers, attacked them on the road. Aramis took two of them with a shot apiece before they closed, and then it was swords and screams and blood on the carpet of autumn leaves. 

Porthos yelled and dropped like a stone, a lucky strike from one of the bandits having caught him square on the temple. D’Artagnan slipped under the man’s guard and ran him through, pushing his body off the blade even as he heard Aramis drop to his need beside Porthos’ prone form. He scanned for any more attackers but Athos dispatched the last of them. The only injury among them seemed to be Porthos who was muttering unintelligibly as Aramis felt along his skull, gingerly.

“We need to get him to shelter, and to make the ride as easy as possible. Head wounds are tricky – another knock could make it that much worse.”

“There’s an inn a mile up the road.” Athos said. “Aramis, you ride with Porthos, take his horse; keep him in the saddle. D’Artagnan tie Aramis’ mount to yours. I’ll act as guard.”

With some manouvering, they managed to get Porthos into the saddle without jarring him and Aramis slid easily up behind, one arm wrapped closely around Porthos’ waist, the other reaching through the larger man’s arms to grab the reins. Porthos’ head tipped back against Aramis’ shoulder in the limp roll of the unconscious and d’Artagnan saw real fear flash across Aramis’ face. He was reminded of that night in the Blue Boar, when Aramis had kissed like it was as vital to him as breathing – his fingers curled around Porthos’ jaw, his thumb stroking against his cheek. Now, seeing Porthos cradled in Aramis’ arms, d’Artagnan was struck by how _tender_ that kiss had been. It was not the wild rush of passion he had first assumed it to be. It was love and devotion and declaration of intent; it had been an oath for the future and d’Artagnan felt simultaneously blessed and humbled to have witnessed it. 

When they reached the inn, the landlord’s wife was quick to assist them to a bed – the only one spare and too small for all of them. At Aramis’ request she brought water and cloths and then returned again carrying a supper tray when it became clear they were none of them going to leave Porthos’ side. 

When Porthos at last fell into a natural sleep, having woken enough to identify Aramis by name and take some food, d’Artagnan at last felt able to see to the horses. He had handed them to the stable boy without a thought, but now he could collect their packs and make sure none of their cargo had been disturbed. 

Aramis was already crouched on the bed, hand pressed to Porthos’ brow, but as d’Artagnan slipped from the room he saw Athos move to join him. There was a monster growing in d’Artagnan’s chest and it snarled in impotent anger at the sight. D’Artagnan made discreet enquiries with the daughter of the landlady, and was told he could sleep in the stables if he wished.

Returning to the room, d’Artagnan laid the others packs just inside the door and made to slip away again. 

“Where are you going?”

Aramis had raised himself up on one elbow, to stare at d’Artagnan across the bulk of Porthos’ shoulder. Athos, too, was watching him from where he lay. 

D’Artagnan swallowed and decided to be economic with the truth he gave them. After the fright they had received, some time alone was the least that he could do for them. 

“Madame’s daughter has offered me an – alternate – bed for the night.” He said eventually, and was rewarded for his efforts when Aramis chuckled quietly. 

“Okay. We’ll see you in the morning. Do try to get _some_ sleep though.” 

Athos nodded his consent and with a nod in return, d’Artagnan closed the door behind him. The stables were cool and drafty and there was no room in the hayloft – filled as it was with the stablehands. 

D’Artagnan opened the door to his horses stall and slipped inside, soothing his mouth as it raised its head in enquiry. Spreading his bedroll on the straw, d’Artagnan laid himself down against the warmth of his horses’ flank, letting the soft snorting and occasional whinnies lull him to a dreamless sleep.

oOo

“The stables.” Athos snarled, startling Aramis awake. “His ‘alternate bed’ or last night was the stables.”

Aramis blinked, trying to clear the sleep from his mind. When Athos’ words penetrated the fog, he scowled. “He wasn’t with Mademoiselle.”

“No.” Athos bit out. 

“Whelp’s been acting strange for weeks.” Porthos muttered, rousing himself at the sound of their voices. “There’s something going on.”

“When we get back to Paris.” Aramis soothed. “We’ll figure it out then. For now, I want you to recite the musketeer’s oath for me.”

“It wasn’t that bad of a blow.” Porthos grumbled, but dutifully did as he was bid. Aramis peppered him with questions as to the location of certain taverns, the name of Aramis’ latest conquest and simply mathematical equations. Finally satisfied that Porthos had sustained no lasting effects from the blow, Aramis was content to let them ride out. They were still a day’s travel from the monastery and the weather was growing steadily colder. If they were lucky, they would make it back to Paris before the autumn frosts began. 

oOo

To his dying day, d’Artagnan’s greatest shame would be the night he had presumed to come to Aramis’ lodgings uninvited. His friends had been cool with him since the trip to the monastery, asking increasingly circular questions, which left him feeling as if they were trying to strip away the skin to see what was inside. He could only imagine that he had somehow revealed his knowledge of their relationship; that his error had made them uncomfortable and they were trying to discern what danger his knowledge might place them in. He had tried, discretely, to explain that he would keep their secret, that he still respected them – but his attempts to communicate this to Porthos had been met with honest bafflement and what seemed like the first stirrings of anger and so d’Artagnan had abandoned the attempt. 

He had taken to sparring with Arnogne, from De Hay’s regiment, rather than face Athos at the other end of a blade and a careless thrust had left him with a narrow slice across the back of his upper arm. The wound was hardly deep – little more than a scratch – but it had yet to cease to bleed in its sluggish way and the bandage d’Artagnan had applied that afternoon was wet and red. It likely needed Aramis’ attention. 

Aramis lived in a narrow tenement block by the wall of the city. It offered a measure of discretion and privacy that lodgings or a boarding house did not. Perhaps the man could afford better, but Aramis seemed to like it and he had told d’Artagnan the address early in their acquaintance. Taking the steps two at a time, d’Artagnan dodged a mangy cat that hissed and spat at him as he passed. He slipped on the final step and fell hard into the wall. The pain that shot up his arm was like a brand against his skin. He could feel the blood from his arm starting to seep into his shirt and pain made him forget is manners.

Without knocking, he pushed open the door to Aramis’ apartments, hand freezing on the handle when he heard a distinctly male moan drift out from the bedroom. There was the creek of a bedframe accompanied by gasp and another moan – this time in a different voice, still male. Then a third, clear as day, and d’Artagnan felt the world slip sideways. 

_”Athos.”_.

A shudder of movement drew d’Artagnan’s gaze and for a terrible moment he thought he had been seen. But no, it was only Aramis’ looking glass – a gift from an amorous lady and a monstrosity. It was a cheval glass – far larger than any man would need to – and positioned in such a way as to give a perfect view into the bedchamber. D’Artagnan had a desperate impression of a head thrown bank in ecstasy, of a tangled knot of limbs, of hips pumping rhythmically and the wet _slap, slap_ of sweat-damp flesh. D’Artagnan felt his knees begin to buckle. Slapping a hand against the wall he kept himself upright. 

There was a satisfied grunt from the other room, and d’Artagnan fled. His boots slipped on the staircase and his palms scraped against the wall. He felt hot and cold and sick. He felt desperate and the monster in his chest _screamed_. He was aroused, and he was angry, and the sight of Athos with his head tipped backwards off the mattress, Porthos braced between his legs and Aramis’ hand reaching between them, was playing on a loop inside his head. He could see the way Aramis’ lips were bitten red, the beginning on bruises on Porthos’s hips and he could the way Athos had been telling Porthos to fuck him – hard and rough and bruising. 

Constance cried out in alarm as d’Artagnan stumbled into the house. She demanded to know if he was okay, but d’Artagnan couldn’t answer her. Throwing himself into his room, he leant back against the door, his hand barely making it to his breaches before he spilled. He wept and raged and when it was all over, Constance was pounding on the door, wanting to know if she should send for a doctor and d’Artagnan knew there was only one choice left to him.

oOo

“You three. My office.”

Aramis traded a look of rueful apprehension with Athos. “This seems familiar.”

Treville was scowling when they closed to door, brandishing a letter carrying the palace seal. “Did you know about this?”

He passed the letter to Athos, who scanned it quickly, throat seizing. He passed it wordlessly to Aramis who moved across to share it with Porthos. “He said nothing to us.” Athos said. “When did you receive this?”

“This morning.” Treville spat. “Levoie had one of his men deliver it.”

“The Queen’s Guard?” Aramis asked, hands still folded around the letter, “But they’re little more than page boys. What’s he doing with them?”

“It would appear d’Artagnan grew tired of waiting for his commission and decided to seek employment elsewhere.” Treville snarled. It was clear his anger was not directed at them.

“No. No way.” Porthos argued. “Boy’s desperate to be a musketeer. He’d wait till kingdom come for a commission if he had to.”

“I agree.” Athos murmured. “Let us speak with him. There may be other factors at play here.”

“I want you to do more than talk to him.” Treville snapped. “I want you to find him and then I want you to drag him back here by the ankles if you have to. D’Artagnan may not have been commissioned, but he was still attached to this regiment and he has not done me the courtesy of providing a note of resignation. Before I hand him over to a lifetime of serving drinks to noble ladies, I want to know why one of the finest recruits I’ve seen in decades decided to trade the life of a soldier for that a glorified toy.”

oOo

The palace was larger than d’Artagnan had imagined. A veritable warren of gilded corridors, d’Artagnan was sure he was lost within minutes. Levoie led him through reception rooms and audience chambers, through gardens and solars and expected d’Artagnan to remember every word that was said. Pain made his mind foggy and the rough bandage he had managed to apply to his arm the night before, already felt like it was buckling. In desperation he had stolen needle and thread from Constance and made an attempt at sticking the wound himself, but the pain had been unbearable, the needle feeling like a poker driving into his skin. He had settled for binding his arm as tightly as he had dared and trying not to bleed on Constance’s sheets. 

Levoie was making a final turn around what he termed the ‘summer garden’ when a voice interrupted them.

“You will forgive us our intrusion, Monsieur.” Athos said, “But we must speak to d’Artagnan on a matter of some urgency.”

“Is something wrong?” Levoie demanded. “Have you done something boy?”

“D’Artagnan is not at fault.” Athos assured him. “But he was recently engaged in the King’s work and the matter is not quite as concluded, as was believed. I’m afraid I must ask that he immediately be released back to the musketeer’s garrison. Our investigation cannot continue without him.”

Levoie looked as though he would have liked to object – if for no other reason than to remind this soldier that his orders did not extend here. But in the end the mention of the King’s business, the implication that the royal reputation might be damaged if this business was not concluded satisfactorily, swayed him.

“Oh very well.” He said. “Take him then. But do not presume to return him when you’re done. I have no time to waste and there are hundreds who would take the position offered here. It will be filled by the time you complete your _’business’_.”

D’Artagnan looked ready to protest – both at being dismissed so summarily and at Athos presuming to try and drag him back to the garrison – but Porthos wrapped a hand around his arm and by sheer chance succeeded in pressing down against d’Artagnan’s wound. 

Ribbons of fire danced across his eyes and only Porthos’ grip kept him upright. 

“God grief boy are you ill? Take him. Take him.” Levoie demanded. “He cannot be ill here.”

Taking d’Artagnan’s other side, Aramis dragged him from the garden, between the hedges until they came to a small fountain surrounded by benches, hidden from view and clearly little used. 

“Where are you injured?” Aramis wasted no time, stripping d’Aragnan of his cloak and jacket, hissing between his teeth when he saw the blood slicking d’Artaganan’s sleeve. “Off.” He commanded. Ignoring d’Artagnan’s protest at being stripped to his skin in the middle of the palace gardens. Porthos whipped the shirt over d’Artagnan’s head and he was left half-naked and shivering as Aramis probed the cut with gentle fingers. “It’s not yet infected.” Aramis said, relief evident in his voice. “Which makes you the luckiest fool alive. Why didn’t you come to me with this?”

“I did.” D’Artagnan protested on instinct, and then bit his lip when his brain caught up with him. He had no wish to invite this line of questions. 

“When?” Aramis asked, more confused than angry. D’Artagnan shook his head and looked studiously at his feet.

“Answer him.” Athos said and the command was clear. That cool tone was one d’Artagnan had come to dread as much as he relished it; that voice could make him do _anything_ and he didn’t want to be so desperate, but Athos – “d’Artagnan. When did you go to Aramis?”

“Last night.” D’Artagnan bit out, shame colouring his face and the loss of the last three friendships he held looming in his mind’s eye.

“I heard nothing.” Aramis said, appealing to Athos and Porthos. “I swear it.”

D’Artagnan grit his teeth and summoned the last of his courage. “You were otherwise occupied.”

There was silence following this announcement. When the quiet stretched from moments, into minutes, d’Artagnan risked a glance up. Athos was pale, Aramis was white as a sheet, dark eyes huge in his face. Porthos looked broken, as if someone had torn him apart and left him to bleed.

“And that is why you left the regiment.” Athos said, voice fraying at the edges. “Because of what you saw.” D’Artagnan nodded. “Then we must beg your forgiveness. We did not intend – that was not a sight – please understand we do not –” He seemed unable to find the words.

“What are you going to do?” Porthos asked. Hand settling against Aramis’ back – he was still knelt in front of d’Artagnan.

“We won’t blame – whatever you decide.” Aramis said, hand convulsing against his thigh. “We know it is a matter of honour, that the law –”

It dawned on d’Artagnan what they were trying to say. Disgusted, ashamed his friends could think such things of him, he pushed to his feet, tripping in his haste to put some distance between them.

“I’m not going to _tell_ anyone.” D’Artagnan said, throat closing with hurt and betrayal. “I’m your _friend_. How could you think –”

Aramis launched himself at d’Artagnan, cutting off the younger man’s words as he wrapped him in a fierce hug. “Thank you.” He whispered. “Thank you. You have no notion of what they would do to Porthos for this.” 

D’Artagnan had been in the Châtelet, he’d seen the bleaker side of justice; he thought he had some idea. 

“Not that I’m not grateful.” Athos said, once Aramis had released d’Artagnan. “But why? This secret is more of a burden than one could reasonably ask of brother, let alone a friend.”

“I thought the musketeers were brothers.” D’Artagnan countered. He felt trapped and raw, not knowing how to escape this interrogation before the whole truth came pouring out. 

“We are.” Athos told him and would have continued, but a look from Porthos stalled him. “But this is not the place for that conversation. Aramis needs to look at your arm and we must let Treville know you will be returning to the garrison.” D’Artagnan looked wretched. Athos raised an eyebrow, “Unless you no longer wish to be a musketeer?”

“I do.” D’Artagnan protested. “It’s just –”

“We can talk about it later,” Aramis decided, handing d’Artagnan his shirt. “For now, we will repair to Porthos’ lodgings – their closest.”

oOo

d’Artagnan’s skin was tight where Aramis had laid four neat stitches into the skin and bound it with a fresh bandage. Athos had left to speak with Treville and Porthos’ bulk was blocking the doorway, preventing d’Artagnan’s escape. Aramis was packing away the last of his kit, washing the needle and stowing it away neatly. He had been quite cross to know that d’Artagnan had attempted to sew his own skin with a stolen _darning needle_ and his lecture of how to properly stitch a wound had been long and impressive. 

There was a knock and the door opened to show Athos, carrying a bottle of wine and word the Treville had relieved them from duty for the day. His precise words had been: _sort this._

Passing the wine to Porthos, Athos moved to take the seat opposite d’Artagnan. Aramis had yet to give him back his shirt and he felt hollow and strangely vulnerable, stripped to the waist whilst they other three stood there, fully clothed.

“Will you explain to us now, why you left?” Athos asked.

D’Artagnan contemplated any manner of lies and half-truths to save himself the embarrassment and censure he was sure to face, but his arm still hurt and he was tired. The wine Aramis had made him drink prior to the stitching, sat heavy in his belly and d’Artagnan decided to lance the wound like one might lance a boil. Let the poison out.

“I was in the way.” D’Artagnan said, and saw Porthos shrug in Aramis direction when the man raised an eyebrow at him. 

“What do you mean?” Aramis pressed. 

“I was in the way.” D’Artagnan repeated. “The three of you clearly wanted time together, and I was always getting in the way. I tried to give you space – I thought it might be easier – but then, last night, and I realised it was going to keep happening. So I decided to leave.” It wasn’t the full truth. In the end he hadn’t been able to admit it; to confess that seeing them together had made in _want_ in a way he had not right to want, had made him want everything that would never be within his grasp. Better to leave and save himself whatever dignity he had remaining.

“You are our brother.” Aramis told him, eyes bright with fury. “No matter that you lack a commission, no matter if you never achieve one. Whether there is one of us, two of us, all three together – you are never a burden and we would never want rid of you. You belong to us, and we to you. Brothers.”

D’Artagnan looked to Athos for confirmation and saw only a poorly disguised hurt that d’Artagnan might have ever doubted it. “You have our respect and our trust.” Athos said calmly. “I can only hope that we can work to undo the damage done here and one day, win your respect and trust in return.”

D’Artagnan gaped. After everything, after all this, how could he not know? 

D’Artangan threw himself forward and kissed Athos desperately, wildly, with no thought other than this might be the only chance he got. There was a moment’s pause and then Athos surged to meet him, hands tangling in d’Artagnan’s hair, changing the angle of the kiss, making it deeper, wetter, tongue sliding between d’Artagnan lips and knee pressing between his legs. There was a gasp of understanding from behind him and then Porthos’ deep rumble of laughter. D’Artagnan wanted to put his hands everywhere at once and at the same time wanted to press himself against the warmth of Porthos, to feel Aramis’ quick mouth graze against his skin. He broke away from Athos, panting, and cast a desperate glance at the other two men in the room. There was an awkward moment where neither quite seemed to understand his meaning and then Aramis’ eyes widened in comprehension and he leant forward to claim a kiss of his own. D’Artagnan melted into it, his waist still caught in Athos’ grip, he legs still splayed either side of that man’s knee. His balance was off and he couldn’t get the leverage needed to make the kiss _good_ but it was still perfect. Aramis nipped at his lips and beckoned Porthos closer with one hand, relinquishing his claim on d’Artagnan’s mouth only when Porthos grumbled with impatience. 

Kissing Porthos was like trying to kiss a hurricane. D’Artagnan pressed against it, trying to match force for force, but it was useless – all he could do was cling and ride the torrent until it ended. He was panting heavily when finally collapsed against Athos, breaches tented and eyes wild with arousal. Athos pulled them over to the bed, spilling d’Artagnan across it, even as the far end dipped beneath the weight of Aramis and Porthos. 

“I want –” d’Artagnan gasped, “I want –”

“What do you want?” Aramis murmured, pressing kissing to d’Artagnan’s sternum, as Athos twisted to kiss Porthos. 

“ _Everything_.” D’Artagnan breathed and Porthos chuckled against Athos’ mouth.

“We can do that.”

The rest of his clothes were lost in short order. He couldn’t bite down on a yell when Porthos wrapped a hand around him, working him in sure, dry strokes, just the right side of painful. Aramis was plundering his mouth again and Athos was rubbing himself slowly, enjoying the show. 

At last Aramis broke away and reach for the oil Porthos kept in a little pot beneath the bed. “This won’t be for you tonight.” Aramis said gently, petting d’Artagnan as one might a startled horse. “The first time is never easy and I don’t think any of us have enough wits to prepare you properly tonight.” He ghosted a hand between the cheeks of d’Artagnan’s arse, eliciting a gasp.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” D’Artagnan managed, words trailing off into a moan as Athos rewarded the confession with a leisurely lick to the head of his cock. 

“Oh.” Aramis whispered. “Well that changes everything.” 

Athos plucked the bottle from his fingers, spreading a generous amount across the own hand, before reaching down to tap a finger gently against d’Artagnan’s hole. The tight ring of muscle quivered in anticipation and d’Artagnan whined when Athos simply circled along the edge, without breaching him. It was not until he gasped out, “please”, that Athos pushed a single digit into him. It was better than d’Artagnan remembered, though part of that was surely because this was _Athos_. Athos who was sliding a second finger into him, twisting and stretching until d’Artagnan was babbling a mess of _more_ and _yes_ and _please_. 

Dimly, d’Artagnan was aware that Porthos was preparing Aramis: quick, hard strokes of his fingers that had Aramis clawing at the sheets and panting. D’Artagnan stretched wildly for a kiss, trying to reach Aramis’ mouth, even as Athos’s hand on his hip stopped him from closing that last inch. Aramis leant forward to meet him, lips soft and sweet, and d’Artagnan could feel every gasping breath, each hitch as Porthos twisted his fingers inside him. 

When Athos added a fourth finger, d’Artagnan arched off the bed with a yell. He felt his spine crack with the effort and Aramis’s hand reached out to entwine with his on the pillow. He could feel when Porthos at last slid home, the fat head of his cock breaching Aramis in one smooth move. Aramis hand convulsed against d’Artagnan’s, and a low moan pulled itself from his throat. Athos seemed content to finger d’Artagnan to completion. When d’Artagnan pulled his gaze back towards him, Athos was watching him with cool eyes, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Better.” He said and pulled his fingers free. D’Artagnan watched in rapture as Athos lined himself up and pushed in. The world faded to the thrum of blood and a endless rush of feeling. He felt _full_ , fit to burst. Athos moved in languid, unrelenting strokes, inside him; a counterpoint to Porthos’ sharp staccato thrusts that had Aramis keening and scrabbling for purchase against the headboard. Athos’ rhythm didn’t leave d’Artagnan room to breathe. With each stroke the breath was knocked from his lungs and every withdrawal set all his nerves blazing so that the ability to draw in air seemed like a long-forgotten skill. His mind was awash with pleasure and Athos wrapped a hand around his cock and began to stroke, d’Artagnan’s world narrowed down to this pinprick of existence. Athos inside him, above him, Aramis and Porthos beside him, and nothing but the white wave of oblivion as Athos pulled him up and over the edge of orgasm.

oOo

When d’Artagnan regained his senses, he was sandwiched between Athos and Porthos; Aramis was padding naked around the room, collecting glasses and a bottle of wine. The last of the evening light was spilling across the room and d’Artagnan felt exhaustion overtake him.

Sinking back into the bedding, he felt Athos run a hand through his hair and Porthos drop a kiss against his temple.

“Sleep, d’Artagnan.” Aramis whispered, climbing in behind Porthos. “We’ll all still be here in the morning.”

“Promise?” D’Artagnan murmured, too wrung out with pleasure to care if he sounded like a child.

“We promise.” Athos said. “Now close your eyes.”

D’Artagnan did as he was told, the comforting rumble of Porthos’ chest and the quiet breath of Athos lulling him to sleep. Before the darkness claimed him, he heard the sound of Aramis laughing softly and the chink of a bottle against a glass. 

They would be there when he woke.


End file.
